


winter blues

by seeley



Series: the atlas chronicles [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt Peter Parker, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Natasha's hobby is sending her friends cryptic messages, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Deserves Better, Sick May Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark is attempting to act like an adult and is mostly succeeding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-08-20 09:44:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20225797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seeley/pseuds/seeley
Summary: Tony wants to grab Peter and run. He wants a platoon of lawyers and liaisons to deal with the affairs. He wants to know what the fuck is going on. He wants to see Peter, to make sure he’s okay. Tony is a selfish person who wants and wants and wants but can’t have because- news flash!- that’s how the real world works. He’s learned the hard way that patience is, in fact, a virtue and that pestering people until they cave and give him what he wants is not a viable option for real life, bonafide adults.[May Parker is hospitalized and for some godforsaken reason she made Tony her emergency contact]





	winter blues

**Author's Note:**

> This fic isn't really compliant with anything between CATWS and Homecoming.

The doors open with a low _swish_, welcoming Tony into the bright, sterile embrace of the room beyond. The lobby is sparsely populated; small clusters of people- families, presumably- dot the chairs throughout it. The loudest sound in the room is the filter of a fish tank in the corner; otherwise, Tony could hear a pin drop on the grimy tile floor.

There’s a brief glimmer of hope when Tony thinks they won’t recognize him because most people need context to make connections, and Tony Stark strolling into an ICU in Queens without notice of a charity event or some superhero shit is so astronomically unlikely that he hopes the sense of disbelief will suspend any suspicions that it’s him. A case of mistaken identity, perhaps? Maybe these people can go tell their loved ones behind those doors that _I saw a guy who looked like a bum-Tony Stark in the waiting room just now. Isn’t that crazy?_

Building off that, people see what they want to and he doesn’t look like the obnoxiously suave and wealthy Tony Stark who’s slapped across tabloid covers and the beginnings of news segments— the result of rushing out the door and not really having the best mental state right now. He’s wearing glasses (the normal corrective kind and not his fashion ones) that barely conceal the dark splotches beneath his eyes and the first articles of clothing he could yank on— in this case, an old t-shirt under a black zip-up hoodie, dark jeans, and a pair of waterlogged sneakers (the direct consequence of stepping in a pothole filled with half-melted snow just outside the parking deck).

_The best disguise is surprise, right?_

Tension in his shoulders lessens a minuscule amount at the thought. But, as usual, the moment relief worms its way into his mind, everything goes to shit.

This was Tony’s- albeit poorly thought through- plan: in and out. In, deal with whatever shit needed to be dealt with, and out. Preferably through a back door, preferably with little to no contact with the public (because everyone owns a smartphone along with a nasty habit of sticking their noses into other people’s personal business without regard to the actual real-life consequences of doing so).

Well, within the first twenty seconds that plan is fucking blown.

A girl with waist-length purple hair snaps a photo of him, the sharp sound of the electronic shutter slicing through the silence.

Obviously, this hospital located in a middle-to-lower class section of Queens wasn’t designed to accommodate the needs of the famous and discrete. It was designed for normal people who aren’t stalked by hoards of crazed fans and intrusive paparazzi. People who will poke and bribe and blackmail until someone cracks and leaks information. Information that will, in turn, be sold to the highest bidder and twisted so that it makes a cute little news article.

_Come one, come all_, the ringmaster cries. _Tony Stark is at the hospital- has Pepper Potts died?_

To keep up with his newfound habit of being honest with himself, Tony shouldn’t’ve set such high expectations— even though the bar was pretty much set at ground level. Apparently, it’s too much to ask for privacy in a goddamn hospital.

Considering the course of his life, Tony should be used to this by now. He’s been in sight of the public eye ever since his mother stepped out of the hospital with a smile and a swaddle of blankets. He knows that people are…_interested_ in his life (to put it politely) and being not only a celebrity with a checkered past but being a goddamn _superhero_, it’s just something he has to deal with. But it sucks. The whole thing sucks.

The most annoying part is that this isn’t even his business. Not really. At least, not yet. However, because of his mere existence near the proximity of this mess, people are going to fucking exploit it and drag innocents through the shit-storm that is _Us Weekly, WHiH World News, _and all the other shitty celebrity news outlets.

Anyway.

The patrons of the ICU deserve a little credit, Tony supposes, because it’s not every day a genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist, whatever-the-fuck-else strolls into a hospital in the heart of Queens. Especially when there’s no charity event or fundraiser accompanying them.

However, Tony is nothing but a contrary man because, despite all these reasons, he’s still pissed. The past six or so days have been shitty, marred by anxiety attacks and a sudden bout of insomnia. The downward spiral kicked off in part because Pepper left eight days ago to meet with stockholders in Singapore and wasn’t there when Tony started falling apart. He doesn’t rely on her to force him out of his funks because that’s not fair to either of them, but her being around helps dissipate the mental fog.

In the back of his head, he hopes the hospital wasn’t expecting someone qualified like Pepper to show up because Jesus Christ won’t they be disappointed when someone as fucked up and hopeless as Tony walks in—

Stop.

Breathe.

Tension is building up behind his eyes, the kind of pain that feels like a rubber band wrapping around his brain, slowly tightening until he can’t function without something to dull the pain. Once upon a time, his fix-all solution was blacking out from high proof alcohol or getting high off hard drugs. Character development is a bitch though, so that option’s off the table— not only since he’s in a fucking hospital— but because he’s managed to get his life somewhat put together (even has a fiancée to prove it) and he’s been sober ever since those painful few weeks after the Extremis fiasco.

Therefore, long story short; too long, didn’t read version- Tony ignores the other people in the waiting room. Causing a scene here and now would accomplish nothing except waste time and make him look- very publicly- more of the asshole that the world already characterizes him as. If this whole thing goes the way he’s dreading it will, his asshole persona will have to be a thing of the past, so it’s best to start now. Not to say that it hasn’t lessened due to the advent of the Avengers and the complete one-eighty of Stark Industries, but old habits die hard and the media will never perish. Ergo, instead of throwing a hissy fit as he might have- no, definitely _would _have- before Afghanistan, he schools his face into what he hopes looks like a smile- or at least an expression that isn’t a straight-up grimace- and walks up to the young woman working reception.

“Anthony Stark,” he tells her, resting his arms on the counter. The word _Anthony_ feels foreign in his mouth- he wonders when he last said his full name.“I received a call.”

The woman- Keisha Benson, if her name tag is correct- glances up over her glasses. “Oh-_oh_,” she stumbles, eyes widening in recognition.

Tony feels his not-quite-a-smile get even tighter. His fingers start drumming a soft and erratic pattern on the countertop.

Ms. Benson recovers quickly, professionalism masking her features, and says, “Ah, yes. Okay, one moment please.” She shuffles through a small pile of papers next to the desktop until she lands on a lime green post-it note with loopy cursive on it. “Here we go...” she says, trailing off as she scans the message. “Yes- okay. I’ll page Dr. Kapoor and tell her you’re here. Please take a seat.”

This time, Tony can’t keep the irritation off his face. He knows what he’s feeling is childish, but _they_ called _him_ and refused to release any information over the phone, so he threw a bunch of random shit into the car and drove two and a half hours from upstate New York to Forest Hills. And now that he’s finally here they’re going to ignore him even longer and force him to sit in the lobby like they didn’t turn his world upside down. The door to the patient ward is less than five feet away from him- it would be easy for him to slip in and wander for a few minutes until he found the right room. It isn’t a good plan by any stretch of the imagination but at least he would be doing something instead of sitting around here on his ass, twiddling his thumbs.

The rational part of Tony’s mind points out that it’s just the way hospitals are, and it’s for the best that they don’t let random people stroll through the Intensive Care Unit, but it’s beaten down by the bitter, pissed off part of his brain saying _I don’t know anything, I haven’t for the past two hours, and now I’m expected to wait here for even-fucking-longer._

Again, it’s a stupid argument, but Tony’s beyond caring at the moment.

Ms. Benson gives him an apologetic but stern look. “It’s protocol, Mr. Stark,” she explains, breaking into Tony’s thoughts. “It’ll only be a few minutes.” Then, she pushes a couple of braids behind her ear and turns her attention to the computer screen.

Tony knows a dismissal when he sees one. He pats his hand against the counter, an acknowledgment of his dismissal but also an announcement that he’s not happy about it, and stalks over to a small, round table with three armchairs strewn around it. He chooses the chair that faces the front desk and ICU entrance, sinking into the stiff healthcare-grade vinyl with a low grunt. It’s coincidentally in view of nearly everyone in the lobby, but he chooses to ignore that fact for now. He leans his arm on the tabletop, drumming his fingers against it to distract himself. Unnatural coolness from the laminate seeps through the sleeve of his jacket, numbing his forearm.

The atmosphere in the waiting room is suffocating Tony like it’s too thick and it’s filling up his lungs too much almost to the point of bursting. He’s not sure if it’s that the hospital’s AC is broken, making the room humid, or if it’s him freaking out a little. Actually, no- scratch that. It’s definitely because he’s freaking out. Not noticeably, of course, because he’s learned long ago how to mask his emotions with a camera-ready smile, but he recognizes that it’s happening and there’s not much he can do about it besides simply let it pass.

_Fuck_. He hates hospitals.

The person closest to him, a teenage boy with a Queens College sweatshirt who’s sitting with who Tony assumes is his dad, starts frantically tapping on his cellphone; Tony has no doubt he’s texting all his college buddies that the genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist Tony Stark is sitting in some random hospital in Queens. Across the room, a ten-year-old girl and her mother play on a tablet, whose camera is inexplicably angled at Tony. The girl who had taken the photo when Tony first walked in is shaking her foot fervently as notifications from her phone- _an SI phone_, Tony notes without humor- light up the screen. Throughout the waiting room, Tony watches as people try, and fail, to furtively capture photos of him with their devices. Their attention, while not unexpected, grates further on his already fraying nerves.

Perhaps if he had managed to be a functioning adult and forced himself to eat something within the past eighteen hours, he would feel better. Instead, his insides feel like they’re clawing against each other and he feels vaguely lightheaded. But, every pitfall has a silver lining. If he _had _managed to be a functioning adult and eat a real meal, he probably would’ve thrown up by now, making a scene of himself during one of the few instances he’s actually trying to act his age.

Drumming his fingers on the tabletop just isn’t cutting it anymore as a suitable distraction anymore, so he pulls out his cellphone. He checks his texts; no new ones. He moves onto his calendar; he’s supposed to eat dinner with Maria tonight. He cancels it. He opens the weather app; clear skies but forty-four degrees. While he’s waiting for Instagram to load, a message from Natasha pops up that reads _we’re both in the land of queens :^)_ with a slightly blurry picture of Stonehenge attached. He sighs, debates about replying, then shoots back, _u r probably having more fun than me _to which she replies almost instantly, _we need to talk soon tony. good luck xx._

Before Tony has time to unpack _that_ can of worms, the door to the ICU ward swings open, revealing a doctor in pale blue scrubs and a lab coat holding a clipboard.

“Anthony,” she calls, not glancing up from her clipboard.

No one gets up for a solid minute, everyone shifting in their seats as they try to weed out Anthony from the crowd. Then, the doctor looks directly at Tony and he belatedly realizes that “Anthony” is him.

So _that’s_ how the hospital’s trying to be discrete.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters.

There’s credit for trying, he guesses.

Tony forces himself out of the armchair, knees popping in complaint. As he makes his way to the doctor, he can feel everyone’s burning gaze until the doctor removes her foot as a prop and the door blocks their view.

“Hello, Mr. Stark, I’m Dr. Deepika Kapoor,” she says as soon as the door clicks closed. “I realize you have many questions, but considering your… _situation_, I believe it would be best if we went somewhere private to discuss everything. Also, as I’ve discovered,” she continues, almost humorously, “Mr. Parker has exceptional hearing.”

And ouch. That hurts more than Tony had prepared himself for. He wants to grab Peter and run. He wants a platoon of lawyers and liaisons to deal with the affairs. He wants to know what the _fuck_ is going on. He wants to _see_ Peter, to make sure he’s okay. Tony is a selfish person who wants and wants and wants but can’t have because- _news flash!-_ that’s how the real world works. He’s learned the hard way that patience is, in fact, a virtue and that pestering people until they cave and give him what he wants is not a viable option for real life, bonafide adults.

In one of his rare moments of wisdom, Obadiah once told him, _There are two kinds of people in this world you never piss off: people in airports and people in hospitals_.

Old Tony would have ignored this sentiment and demanded that Dr. Kapoor take him to Peter this instant. Old Tony would have lost his temper, forced Dr. Kapoor to call security, who would’ve then tossed him out, which would have left Peter to the next emergency contact’s whim.

Modern Tony, however, is a man who fancies himself as responsible and functional. This Tony recognizes that despite how Obadiah was basically Judas reincarnated as a twenty-first-century business tycoon, his aphorism warrants a sliver of merit. In honor of not pissing off people in hospitals, Tony agrees to the doctor’s suggestion with, “That would be great, thanks.”

Dr. Kapoor nods her head and tucks her clipboard against her side. They walk in silence. The corridor has enough staff and family members and machinery occupying it that Dr. Kapoor has to weave their way through instead of walking in a direct path. As they pass the numerous doors and rooms, Tony wonders which one the Parker family is in. Are they through the slightly ajar door? Or past the closed door with the unaligned hinges? Or are they somewhere else entirely?

Tony’s spiraling and he knows it. He feels detached from his surroundings like they’re floating around in a fish tank and he’s the dumbass spectator watching shit happen but not reacting to it. If he suddenly woke up only to discover that the past four hours were a stress-induced dream sequence, he wouldn’t question it. Tony shoots a quick, wordless plea to the universe begging for this whole ordeal to be a dream because he’s not in the best state of mind to be making life-altering decisions today. Tomorrow, perhaps? However, like most things, the universe is a massive bitch and if it could respond, it would say _fuck you, deal with your shit_.

The amount of faith people have in his abilities to be a functioning adult is simultaneously empowering and fucking terrifying.

Before Tony realizes it, they’re standing in the precipice of a room with a black placard that reads ‘Staff Only.’ Dr. Kapoor unlocks the door, revealing a room that’s empty of people but full of furniture. It’s obviously a break room, complete with a refrigerator covered in magnets, a clunky box TV, a shelf stuffed with mismatched books, and a half-finished puzzle on a table tucked in the corner. The thin, horizontal window blinds are bent and yellowed with age and, even though it’s trying, the air freshener wall plugin can’t hide the room’s bizarre scent.

“Let’s sit, shall we?” Dr. Kapoor says, gesturing to a small sofa and two armchairs arranged around a stained coffee table. The way she phrases it ends with a question, but it isn’t a request. It’s more along the lines of _I’m going to sit and you can do whatever the hell you want but you’ll look like an asshole if you don’t_.

In fact, Tony does feel like being a bit of an asshole because he’s tired of sitting- tired of sitting down, sitting on the sidelines, waiting for answers that no one seems to care about giving out. But that’s Old Tony speaking. Modern Tony argues, _There’s no one here to bail you out, dumbass_. _So let’s pretend to be a fucking adult who deals with pleasantries and other bullshit because that’s what _actual_ adults have to do_.

Therefore, Tony plays the ‘I’m a functioning middle-aged man’ card and shrugs his shoulders. “Sure.”

Unlike the furniture in the lobby, the sofa and the chairs in here are made of leather that’s been worn soft through years of use. Just how many years makes itself obvious through the lumpiness of the sofa’s back and the spring that’s jabbing itself into Tony’s ass. Dr. Kapoor settles in the armchair across from him, placing the clipboard in her lap and resting her hands on top of it.

Because the room is devoid of other hospital employees, Tony tries to decide if Dr. Kapoor kicked her coworkers out or if it simply happened to be empty. But judging by her demeanor, it isn’t difficult to imagine her marching through the doors and telling everyone to fuck out of the break room for the next fifteen minutes. Suddenly, Tony’s glad that out of all the doctors in the hospital, Dr. Kapoor is the one assigned to this case. Her steely eyes and the severe set of her jaw wistfully reminds Tony of Pepper.

He also wonders if a meeting like this is protocol or if the hospital is trying to cater to Tony’s celebrity status. He doesn’t think it’s normal— he’s pretty sure most people don’t get personal meetings with critical care physicians in the staff break room. Years ago, Tony would have welcomed the special treatment, would have written it off as being his right as someone with so much status in society. But now he’s had years of reflection, introspection, and the emergence of some goddamn common sense and it’s just weird. Embarrassing, even. But then Dr. Kapoor shifts in her seat and the thoughts fly from Tony’s mind as quickly as they arrived.

“I know you must have many questions, Mr. Stark,” she begins, not beating around the bush. “I will try to answer them to the best of my knowledge.”

There’s only one he needs to be answered immediately.

“How is Peter?”

The corners of Dr. Kapoor’s mouth tug slightly upwards. “Peter is fine- physically that is. He’s in his aunt’s room right now. Last time I went in, he was asleep.”

Relief hits Tony, forcing air out of his lungs to mark his first full breath since the phone call. He drags a hand down his face, digging his fingernails into his cheek to ground himself.

“Okay. Okay, that’s good. That’s terrific, actually, now that you mention it,” he rambles. Then, “What do you know about May’s… situation?”

Dr. Kapoor hums and nods her head. “Around eleven a.m. yesterday morning,” she says, “nine-one-one received a phone call from May Parker’s neighbor. The neighbor said she came over to ask Ms. Parker for a book when she noticed the door was open. She went inside and saw Ms. Parker having a series of severe seizures in the living room. She was taken directly to the ICU where we’ve been monitoring her ever since. Based on our preliminary tests, Ms. Parker has inflammation of the brain that is, as of now, from an unknown cause. She’s been in and out of consciousness, and as of now, we’ve decided against a medically induced coma, but if her vitals begin to fall we may have to resort to that extreme.”

Despite the relief Tony just felt, his chest seizes painfully. His lungs feel like balloons pumped with too much air, like they’re going to burst at any given second. Logically, he knows he needs to exhale so he doesn’t pass out, but the panic’s taken hold too tightly to let him go that easily. But he manages to get out, “How does her prognosis look?”

“As of now her condition is stable,” Dr. Kapoor says carefully. “But the brain is complex and, unfortunately, there are large gaps in medical knowledge about it. We believe that she’s made it through the worst of it, but her condition could still deteriorate at any moment. Especially since a minor is involved, we should prepare for the worst.”

Tony’s dealt with enough doctors and their euphemisms to know at what Dr. Kapoor is hinting. “So, there’s no hope for her, is what you’re telling me,” he reiterates, voice flat.

“It’s too early to be definitive,” she corrects. “But, yes, the brain is a vastly under-explored topic in the medical field. It has been over twenty-four hours since we admitted Ms. Parker, and, even with proper treatment, she could still suffer severe neurological damage.”

Jesus shit fucking Christ. Tony drags a hand through his beard.

“How much does Peter know?”

“He knows as much as we can comfortably tell him. He knows his aunt has brain swelling, but not how critical her condition may still become. He also knows that you’re coming to pick him up, but he’s not happy about having to leave.”

Tony snorts. “Yeah, I bet. How long has he been here?”

“We pulled him out of school around one o’clock yesterday,” Dr. Kapoor replies, which surprises Tony. He doesn’t know how normal schools work, given the fact that he’s never attended them, but he thought they would have informed him after classes. “He’s been here ever since.”

Jesus. So, Peter’s been here for a full twenty-four hours. Alone. He wonders what Peter’s been thinking about. He wonders if Peter’s told any of his friends what’s going on. He wonders if—

“Wait, has no one else come to check up on him?”

A beat of silence.

“Peter hasn’t contacted anyone else. He said you were the only option.”

Tony can’t help it. He laughs. The ridiculousness of this whole thing catches up to him; how absurd it is that May marked Tony as her emergency contact, that Peter has been here unsupervised for an entire day, that anyone even entertained the idea that _Tony_ is qualified for involvement. He’s laughing too hard for it to be normal, his chest too tight, his stomach too unsteady. Hysteria climbs up his throat, and for the first time since the phone call, he lets it take over until he can’t breathe. Dr. Kapoor probably thinks he’s coming unhinged or that he is already, but nothing about her expression changes other than the fact that she weaves her fingers together. Her borderline apathetic demeanor is such a contrast to Tony’s crumbling one that it throws a hiccup in his panic. It’s not a big one, but it’s enough to allow him a deep breath. Which he follows by another. And another. And another— until only the usual amount of anxious static remains in his chest.

“No,” he manages once he’s pulled himself together. “No, that can’t be right. You see, I’m not the- how do you say?- _reliable_ type, or haven’t you heard? I doubt Peter said that and if this is some kind of sick joke where there are hidden cameras or some shit and Peter Benjamin Parker isn’t even here I can and _will_ sue—”

“Mr. Stark,” Dr. Kapoor interrupts, “As much as I wish it were, this is not a joke. I realize this is very sudden, and it may be difficult to come to terms with, but Peter needs help. He is a _child_ who is facing something most adults do not even have to confront. His only caretaker is lying in a hospital bed. Now, there are protocols that I must follow, ones that my team and I have already bent in order to accommodate due to both your… _status_ and Peter’s privacy. Peter Parker has been here for more than twenty-four hours, unaccompanied, and since he is— legally— a child, I must send him home. Preferably, with a friend or relative. However, if you choose not to take in Mr. Parker— and you are completely free to do so— then I will call Child Protective Services and he will be placed into the foster care system. Do not feel pressured to take one course of action or the other, but I wanted you to be aware of the available options.”

If nothing else, Tony has to respect her curtness and honesty. People don’t typically grant him that privilege, choosing to suck up to him and sugar coat every word that emerges from their mouths. But regardless of how the doctor delivered the news, Tony got the message loud and clear:_ Peter needs someone, and right now it’s yo_u. Tony wants to slide a _for some reason_ after _you,_ but he’s been around the Parkers for enough time that he no longer kids himself about how much he cares for them and vice versa.

Tony knows what people think about him. He watches the same news channels, passes by the same tabloids, reads the same newspapers as everyone else in the world. His life isn’t spent in a fucking bubble. Even after Afghanistan, even after the rebranding of Stark Industries, even after the Battle of New York, most people view him as the shallow playboy billionaire who pretends to be a superhero because it makes his company look good. Maybe at one time, he had been closer to that definition than he would like to admit, but he’s not like that anymore. Because of Pepper and Rhodey and Happy and the Avengers, he’s finally put down roots so that he’s no longer floating through the abyss. At some point, Peter has become apart of Tony’s Network of Important People, and the realization of that fact sinks into Tony’s stomach like a stone.

He clears his throat. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “I mean, I’ll take him.”

Dr. Kapoor nods her head and marks something on the clipboard. “Thank you. I always prefer sending minors home with friends or relatives versus CPS.”

Tony laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, I bet.”

“Mr. Stark—”

“Tony."

“_Tony_,” Dr. Kapoor amends, “I do not know the intricacies of Peter’s relationship with you, but is it safe to assume that you will be his primary caregiver?”

“Um, yes? Well, I guess technically it would be me and my fiancée, Pepper Potts, or _Virginia_ Potts, but she’s in Singapore right now on a business trip.”

Dr. Kapoor clicks her pen closed. “Yes, I understand. I also understand that you are probably tired of talking with me and would like to see Peter, but there’s one last thing I would like to tell you. When I told Peter that you were coming, he gave me his cellphone number so that I could call him with updates. However, due to Peter’s age, I would feel much more comfortable if the hospital had your personal number on hand in the case that there is information that needs to be expressed to you. We have the number Peter told us to call earlier, but we want to confirm that it’s the best one to reach you.”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Tony says, then rattles off his personal cell number. The doctor scribbles it down and rereads it to make sure she copied it accurately.

He shifts awkwardly in his chair. “Uh, look, Dr. Kapoor, I know Pete gave you his number and he’s a great kid, he really is, responsible and mature and everything, but he’s still fifteen years old, if you know what I mean. I, uh, speak from experience- a _lot_ of experience, actually- when I say that kids aren’t the best people to deal with emotional trauma alone. I mean emotional trauma sucks no matter what age someone is but kids especially. But anyway, I would appreciate it if you gave me updates first and then sent them to Peter a few minutes later, so I can… prepare? I guess. So I can prepare, especially if the news is… not good, per se.”

For the first time since they’ve met, Dr. Kapoor smiles. “Yes, of course.” Tony feels like he’s passed some kind of test in her eyes and he feels oddly vindicated. She continues, “Peter’s been here too long. He needs someone to bring him home, give him food, take a shower, and make him sleep in an actual bed.”

“So basically, you want me to force him into acting like a functioning human?”

Dr. Kapoor gives him a slight nod despite the bad joke, which Tony is grateful for. She stands up as she says, “I suppose that’s one way of putting it. Sometimes people need reminding.”

"Are we going to him now?"

"Yes. Unless you would like to take a few moments."

"No, I'm fine. I'm fine. I've been waiting long enough, and I'm sure Peter has been too. We both need to get home."

Dr. Kapoor says something that floats in and out of Tony's mind. When she continues her path to the exit, Tony follows behind her, the weight of the world on his shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope y'all enjoyed!
> 
> xx Seeley


End file.
